


Tribulation

by teaberryblue



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Frostbite, Ghost Abigail, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:38:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5313260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaberryblue/pseuds/teaberryblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will determined that there were four possible outcomes upon dragging Hannibal off a cliff:</p><p>1) They would both die.<br/>2) He would die. Hannibal would live.<br/>3) Hannibal would die. He would live.<br/>4) They would both live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tribulation

**Author's Note:**

> Flashfic written for jim-moriartease of tumblr in support of the [Raw Fanthology](https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/badinfluencepress/raw-a-hannibal-will-fanthology?ref=project_tweet), takes place immediately after The Wrath of the Lamb.
> 
> Thanks to SeptimalShenanigans & Froggie for beta/moral support!

Will determined that there were four possible outcomes upon dragging Hannibal off a cliff:

1) They would both die.  
2) He would die. Hannibal would live.  
3) Hannibal would die. He would live.  
4) They would both live.

Two was obviously unacceptable. He couldn't guarantee Hannibal's actions in his absence, and particularly were Hannibal to learn that he had perished. It would be deeply unsafe, he told himself, and determined to see to it that it was not, in fact, the outcome that manifested.

Three, also, was unacceptable, though he tried not to look too closely at that particular possibility, but shrugged it off, filed it in a dusty drawer in the back recesses of his brain, and told himself that perhaps it was better not to question why he felt option one was preferable to option three.

He attempted to mentally prepare himself for all possible conclusions, but what he did not prepare himself was this:

The plunging rush of icy water as it rose around him, the effervescence of the bubbles made by their collision with the water's surface, the way the water licked at his clothing, saturated it, made it conform and adhere to his skin, the strange sensation of blood mixing with salt water and the smooth-slick feel of the blood being stripped from his skin, the intense burning of the salt in every wound in his body, the pressure of the water in his nostrils, the way he choked and spluttered as his mouth opened against his very will to keep it shut, and the brisk chafe of the night air in his mouth and throat as his head broke the surface, as he spat water and gulped in his breaths, the way his fingers became stiff with cold, stiff like the extremities of a dead man, the way he couldn't have pried them from Hannibal's back if he'd wanted to.

He had not prepared himself for Abigail, her white face like a full moon as she stared calmly down at them from where she sat on the surface of the water. The moonlight hit the rippling currents and reflected up, glimmering white, and she was perched there as if the light had resolved into a solid surface. 

He bumped his forehead against Hannibal's. Had he kissed him? He had wanted to kiss him, but he wasn't sure he had. And now that the taste of Dolarhyde's blood had been replaced with sea brine, all he could remember was a conversation about oysters, about how they took on the properties of the water from which they were harvested, about how Pacific oysters were sweeter and more mild than Atlantic ones, how Atlantic oysters retained more salt.

Hannibal wasn't responding. 

Will thought, perhaps, it was better, if he hadn’t kissed him, that it would have been inauthentic, overwhelmed by the flavor of another man’s blood on their lips, like drinking wine from a plastic cup. 

Will let himself see Abigail.

"Am I dead?" He asked.

"Are you in pain?" Abigail asked. "I have some experience with both. One usually stops where the other starts."

"I remember pain," Will said slowly. His voice was a croak, now; it took effort to speak. "But it's too cold, now. Everything's going numb."

"Is numbness the absence of pain?" Abigail asked. 

Will's throat went right. "It conceals it," he answered. 

"Then you're probably not dead," Abigail assured him. "But you could be," she added. "With minimal effort."

Will shut his eyes. "Living would be harder, right now."

"I don't know about harder," said Abigail. "It would take more effort. You do have the choice."

The salt in the water made it easy to float, easier than it might have been to hold Hannibal's head above water. Will's hand was clumsy as he checked for a pulse; the pads of his fingertips felt too thick, as if they were covered over with calluses on calluses. But there was something there, weak, and somehow, Hannibal's body felt warmer than his own.

"It's a choice you never had," Will said softly. "If you...if you'd been able to choose..."

He didn't finish his question. He didn't have to. "I think I would have liked to live," Abigail said. "It might have been a bad decision. People don't survive that kind of thing twice and stay whole. But it would have been interesting to see what happened, don't you think?" 

Will shivered. He clutched Hannibal closer. "That's Hannibal talking," he told her. "Not you."

"No," Abigail said. "It's not me talking. But I'm in your head, not his."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Will asked.

"Really?" Abigail asked. "After all this time? We both know that neither of us would forgive you for taking the easy way out."

He gritted his teeth, his irritation overwhelming even the cold that was becoming so intense that the numbness in his toes was giving way to burning. 

“Neither of us?” he asked. “Which ‘us?’ Me and you? You and him?” 

And then he laughed-- a harsh, grating laugh, because here he was, freezing to death, having an argument with a ghost. 

"I'm sorry," he said, all too aware of the layers of irony that danced around that apology, and all he could see was the look he imagined Hannibal would have worn on his face if he'd heard Will apologizing, out loud, to a sliver of his own conscience. Amused, probably, and thoughtful, and mildly concerned. He'd want to know what it felt like, Will supposed, and Will supposed that he'd try to describe it as faithfully as he could.

But when he looked up, Abigail was gone, and there was nothing but the reflection of the moon on water like a broken bridge to the shore. 

He envisioned being able to climb onto it, the moonlight solidifying into something like smooth, translucent marble veined with gold. 

He reached a hand out, as if to test it, as if, after everything else had resolved so improbably, there was no reason why this should be any different, but his hand sliced through the water, dissipating the light in ripples where it broke the surface. 

“I guess we’re doing this the hard way, then,” he murmured, even as he felt some slim satisfaction that matter and light were behaving as they should, that this was reality, that his mind was fully present. He curled his toes up tightly in his shoes, and then kicked the shoes off, his feet floating up slightly at the sudden loss of weight. 

He checked his pockets, the joints of his fingers unbending as he removed every last piece of identification. The last thing he dropped was his wedding ring. 

The silence, without Abigail there, was unsettling. Will squinted at the shoreline, then squinted at Hannibal. 

Will determined that there were twenty-six possible outcomes upon swimming to shore.


End file.
